Kayla Plabennec Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Marseille

Now, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea—earl grey, ‘cause I’m classy—imaginin’ a whore in Varda’s lens. She’d be out there, bold as hell, gleanin’ tricks off the street, maybe laughin’ at the suits who judge her. “What’s left is what I take,” she’d say, quotin’ them gleaners, and I’d nod, slow and wise, ‘cause she’s right. Ain’t no waste in her world—she’s the queen of makin’ do. Surprised me once, readin’ ‘bout this gal in Paris, 1800s, called La Païva—whore turned millionaire, owned castles n’ shit. Hustled so hard she flipped the script—love that, man, LOVE that.

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Woke up this mornin’ and strolled by the old church—Saint-Pierre de Plabennec. It's tiny but got mad character. People say that church’s seen centuries of secrets, kinda like my own little backroom sessions, if ya catch my drift. Then there's Place du Marché, full of crazy vendors and always buzzin’. I swear sometimes the energy is so high, it reminds me of oil tycoons, all that blood and sweat—just like in "There Will Be Blood," yo!

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